


young god

by starshipology



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Adventures, Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Asexuality, Atrophy, Author is Not Sure, Bi-Curiosity, Bisexuality, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Canon - Anime, Child Abuse, Child Labor, Childhood, Children of War, Coming of Age, Confusion, Conspiracies, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Crying, Dead Parents, Declarations Of Love, Demiromantic, Denial of Feelings, Derogatory Language, Emotional, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Existential Angst, Existential Crisis, Fear, Fear of Death, Fear of fire, Frail Relationships, Fucked Up, Genocide, Human Experimentation, Hunter X Hunter (2011) - Freeform, Hunter x Hunter - Freeform, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Incomprehension of Emotions, Incomprehension of Morality, Inferno - Freeform, Life Fucks Up Every Now And Then, Lots of Crying, MIA parents, Major Character Injury, Misogyny, Multi, Near Death Experiences, Nen (Hunter X Hunter), No Salvation, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Originally Posted Elsewhere, Orphans, PTSD, Patient and Concerned Killua Zoldyck, Platonic Relationships, Poor Life Choices, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Psychopathic Tendencies, Rape, Recovering Through Time, SOS, Sad with an Unsure Ending, Sadism, Self Management, Self-Acceptance, Self-Denial, Self-Destruction, Sexual Abuse, Stream of Consciousness, Supportive and Accepting Gon Freecs, Tears, The Story in Which Everyone Suffers, The Story in Which We Couldn’t Afford Happy Characters, The Story in Which We Couldn’t Afford a Beach Episode, Threats of Violence, Torture, Toxic Relationships, Tragic Prologue, Triggers, Understanding, Walking On Ice, a lost gay brother, an au where everything goes to shit, apathetic, fear of touch, implied everything, implied slavery, lowkey gay, or Friends to Lovers to Enemies, orphaned children, patience - Freeform, posted on wattpad under SEOKJINISM-, questionable actions, questionable morality, self-hate, sociopathic tendencies, touch starved, tragic ocs, unexpected death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-02-24 09:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13211088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starshipology/pseuds/starshipology
Summary: YOUNG GOD [ Hunter X Hunter ]"UNTIL THE DAY OF VICTORY -DON'T KNEEL, DON'T COLLAPSE."His name was Prince, a boy who's eyes were as troubling as his surreptitious dreams at night. A simple boy who's childhood was a blurry backdrop, with no true name to his face nor even parents to remember.





	1. CHAPTER I. 蜘蛛の糸

[ ACT I. 戦記の序章 ; Prologue to the War ]  
CHAPTER I. 蜘蛛の糸  
｛ The Spider's Thread

He was destined to walk a dark and crooked path, one that is clouded with secrets and stained of blood. It is labyrinthine and surreptitious, so long and winding that it casted a darker shadow that engulfed his being. His heart was and but only a whirlpool of flat, stirring emotions. If caught in fear, he would ineffably plummet sooner and closer to an unprecedented, crushing death that he loathed and desired all at once. The pungent, metallic scent fills his nostrils, and like an epiphany, he finds comfort. He whispers to himself words of eloquent reassurance, like a maniac who's denouement had gone wrong, realizing the lie he had been vainly living. And yet behold, there is no hidden poetry in death and there is no romance in a lifetime. 'Tis abrupt and cruel, such things can be said to bo.

But like the operatic arias and the dulcet accents of voices, it was music to his ears; the thumping sound of genocide echoing with the soundless yet loud death from every corner of the world. Fortississimo, Grandioso, Tremolo, and more terms of the musically inclined — death echoed, thus it was endless. Like an answer to a riddle, there is no beginning nor an end to a circle. It pleased the young boy, who's existence was mangled helplessly, and yet there was a bright grin on his face. So roguish and akin to a cursed smile of a beast, fanged and stained of blood and sin — one would think it would be impossible to be ecstatic of the chaos, but he was different for he was hatred and rage himself, and no longer did he pander and whimper to those truly inferior to him, no longer did he have to appeal to the masses that had wronged him for his birthright. Oh, how enchanting it is to have the world squirm under his sempiternal rage.

He had been warned once and then a thousand times after, for his hatred devoured and destroyed. But while he was hatred, he was fear all at once. So lost and frightened, feared and abhorred; he was a beast and a villain for the world to blame, but he begs for one more epiphany, for where did this corrosive hatred come from? Who was he but a child with a name and a sword? Ah, he adored the sin of it all but what was it all for if not for himself? How long has he stared into the abyss? Or better yet, has he not become the abyss itself for his crimes against humanity and himself? What has he abandoned to become glorious and powerful and void of weakness?

Such tributaries of his own crisis were only reminders, this sickening fear and this damning hatred were simply memorabilia of the inferno, the debris, and the accented misery of those who had wrong him — If I am not hatred and fear, then I am no one else. A boy died that night and a beast was reborn in his stead, and so this is my war thus it is not theirs, he realizes. Exhilarating and triggering, he found peace and retribution in the daunting footsteps of war. If the end justify the means, then he shall slaughter them all. If the end justify the means, then he shall be the villain the world desperately needs. If the end justify the means, then he shall be end of this world that loathed him. Let the madness reign and let the cruelest beasts snuff out the clarity of it all, for if he was not hatred and fear, he would be no one at all.

But the countless epiphanies and the wondrous madness became crystal clear dreams, for the blood-stained sky turned the softest blue and the sea of bodies morphed into one single woman who's voice was sharp and very similar to a banshee; "Wake up, you ungrateful child!" She yelled once and then a thousand more times. How could this not be a dream when it captures her dulcet screams so realistically?

And so he opens his eyes and finds himself under the murderous glare of Vandella Therese D'Arc, an aristocrat with the most massive personality crisis in all of Cefran. And within seconds of realization, he manages to kneel and beg just in time before the woman in the soft blue satin began raving in anger once more. The dream was forgotten and all that was left in him was the cacophonous echo of itself, leaving a hollow ache in his chest.

"We've been nothing but saints to you ever since Lilith took you in! I told her not to waste food on you, or even give you a bed! And God forbid, even the clothes!!" The woman seethed, veins nearly popping at the volume of her voice. Her wrist flicking up and down as she fanned herself, though it did nothing to her reddening complexion, "And still, you dare sleep on your job like you deserve such rest?! You? An orphaned bastard who my lovely, dearest sister pitied on?! How dare you think you are above your station, freak!!" Vandella screamed in a scandalized manner, as if her tea turned out to be water from the sewers, her pale skin turning red with anger in a matter of seconds.

"It was an accident..." He whimpered on his knees, his eyes trained to the carpet and its weaved details. His toes curling inside his tattered shoes, lips trembling as he apologized helplessly. He was truly nothing like the dream. The echoing had stopped. The glorious rhapsody of war was nowhere to be found, thus its traces were gone and its existence was lost. It was mind maddening, to have such dreams that were obsessively reoccurring yet merely forgotten soon after until he felt that dreadful ache in his chest soon after. A reminder of some sorts, a warning of some kind, a cryptic message he was yet to unravel.

His name was Prince D'Arc, a boy who's eyes were as troubling as his surreptitious dreams at night. A simple boy who's childhood was a blurry backdrop, no true name to his face nor even parents to remember. He recalled being adopted when he was six years old, by a woman who's beauty was unparalleled even by her own sisters — Lilith Anastasia D'Arc, the Lady and Mistress of the Most Noble and Ancient House of D'Arc. Though unparalleled beauty she was, her heart was filled with cunning and cruelty. Her eyes were an acidic green and her hair was similar to the color of honey, she was the temptress herself.

When he first saw her eyes, he thought she was something that of a serpent, but as her lips curled to a soft and endearing smile — he was instantly filled with hope. And though hope was kind and sweet, it destroyed him all the same. His naïveté was disconcerting at the time, to remember how easily misled he was by that simple smile made him cringe with self-pity. Just how desperate was he to escape the brutality of the world and his own sorrow that he had mistaken such a predatory grin for a sympathetic and kind smile?

A six-year-old child wouldn't know any better, he defend himself with a scowl, though his tone was faint and defeated.

"What is this all about? Ella, what is the meaning of this?"

Speak of the devil and she shall come, he bitterly thought to himself, still on his knees as his eyes darted to look at the trailing dress that pooled around Lilith's slender figure. He fears that he would have to look into her eyes, and remember that frightening hope she had made him feel as a child.

"The little rat was sleeping! He hasn't even washed the sheets, or even the curtains yet!" Vandella immediately said with vindication.

"Oh, now that can't be right. I thought we promised not to sleep on our job, little prince? You don't want to be punished again, do you?" Lilith tutted the same way a scolding mother would, shaking her head with soft reprimanding as she placed a well manicured finger below his chin, slowly lifting his chin to have him face her. This was the woman Prince truly feared, and she was truly much more frightening than all of her sisters combined — making a mockery of Vandella's banshee-like screech, Melusine's drab personality and Xana's pathetic pandering was not a crime if he was careful enough to not voice it out. They weren't Lilith Anastasia, after all.

If Lilith was at very top of the food chain, the other sisters were middle-class predators who's fangs were dull. The She-Devil was a preposterous woman who's libido was petty cruelty, and Prince was the cowardly boy who's backbone was nonexistent. "It won't happen again, I promise." He vowed earnestly, anything to avoid the agonizing punishment he had gotten used to since he had been adopted — 'used to' did not mean he was a brave fool who would stick his head out for the guillotine to slice it off.

"But you promised me that, too. And now you broke your promise, so you deserve to be punished... Don't you think so, Prince?" Lilith purred, her hair falling flawlessly from her back and to her shoulders, smoothly cascading down like waterfalls.

Is she or is she not a self-respecting woman with standards and morals?, Prince caught himself thinking as he shivered under her touch, leaving him staggering and breathless and frightened but also hateful and spiteful all at once. Flashes of a sword came to mind, and then flying embers and ashes of a meaningless dream he couldn't make sense out of; only that he felt murderous and disgusted at the touch. The way she leaned forward to show the shape of her breasts, the way she sighed softly and whispered like her words were a holy prayer. He was no pariah to this serpent who's deeds were as disgusting as they were sinful.

Any born and raised citizen of Cefran would know the sisters of the (not so) Most Noble and Ancient House of D'Arc, were renowned for their unadulterated desire for sexual intimacy — they had no preference (or standard). The sisters never discriminated when it came to sex; male or female, old or young, wealthy or not, dead or alive... And if memory served him well, once or twice, Prince even caught Xana, the youngest of the sisters, bringing a fair milkmaid and her beau into her chambers, and he could vividly remember Vandella exchanging body fluids with an old retired man from the military by the terrace.

Though they were wealthy, and had a high reputation within the noble society. That didn't stop terrible rumors from floating around, like the sisters being underground prostitutes or being related to the devil (or the succubus); Prince found it hard to believe that some people even fell in love with the wretched women he had to call 'sisters'. For most of the part, Prince grew impatient with them and their sex life. He would oftentimes wish to never be involved in their quest to have sex with nearly every single hot-blooded being they lay their eyes on, but alas, like his forgotten dreams — he forgets that he is Prince D'Arc, a simple boy who's life has been damned and cursed by the Gods themselves.

"I — I really do promise it this time!" He pleaded with fear and anxiety that ripped his heart apart, remembering silk and sweat and pain. Prince wonders why he feels such anguish in the face of the serpent who's jaws are unhinged, pleasantly waiting to devour his vapid existence. The same way a predator does to its prey.

There is a wicked grin on her lips, her voice was jagged with spite and mockery as she withdrew her slender fingers away from Prince's face; "Oh, I really do like it when princes beg." Lilith laughed, batting her eyelashes with impending ebullience. "Come along, little prince. I'll make it quick for you since I'm in such a good mood."

His begging and miserable screams of promises were nothing to their ears and to their nonexistent morals, as he found himself promptly tied to the bed he knew better than the city of Cefran. "No... Please, no..." He whimpered to Lilith, and to the Gods. He's already been under her lithe body countless times to know his own begging screams, enough times to know the pain that was beyond his or anyone's own belief. She calls it love and affection — He calls it the bane of his somber existence because though he knows little to nothing about love and its sweet musings to the mortals of this world, he understands enough to make a better assumption that this 'love' of hers is not supposed to make him feel ashamed, destroyed, disgusted, enraged, betrayed and frightened.

As he blankly stares at the canopy of the bed, with red-rimmed eyes from crying himself through the thievery of his innocence, though his tears distracted him from the disgust and shame, he still found himself whispering his ignored prayers to the world that has continuously forsaken him. Was he not just a child? Did he not deserve the innocence he was born with? — Was this his fate for forevermore?

I shall be my own salvation, he thought with tears of anguish and fire in his eyes. If God shall ignore his humble plea for salvation; then must he, Prince, turn to the devil instead? Morality and religion be damned for eternity, for if the end justify the means — He shall no longer be the boy with a blurry backdrop for a childhood and a face with no true name. Enough was enough, so damn these wretched sisters and damn their useless God, let him be the harbinger of death and hypocrisy and pain if it means his own deserved liberation. Let them tighten the rope around their own slender necks, let that be their only one good deed.


	2. CHAPTER II. 頂に舞うもの底に這うもの

[ ACT I. 戦記の序章 ; Prologue to the War ]   
CHAPTER II. 頂に舞うもの底に這うもの  
｛ Those Who Dance at the Summit, Those Who Creep in the Depths

Prince's memories of his life before the chaos is as vague as it is mysterious, though there were always flashes of cryptic moments that appeared haphazardly, he always managed to distract himself with the anger that soon enough festered within him. What else would he reminiscence about, besides the day he was bought by Lilith for only eight thousand Jenny? He recalled being sneered and mocked by those who had auctioned him off under the hot glare of the summer sun, taunting him with their greasy smiles and putrid gazes. He remembered the weight of the wooden plaque around his neck, the bids starting from five and then the dry silence of the audience who only stared at his dishonored figure. And yet, he couldn't even recall his own birthday.

Six-years-old and already a cattle to be sold to the highest bidder, six-years-old and already forgetful of his birthright, six-years-old and already so jaded and betrayed. How could he remember his darkest moments, but not the moments whereas he saw beauty in the world? Maybe the world just wasn't beautiful in the first place, he thought with an ugly sneer on his pale face. That familiar anger rising up to his throat again, threatening him with its ineffable escape. Too long has he allowed himself to be dishonored and shamed by the maggots and fools he surrounded himself with, too long has he suffered under the face of true evil. Someday, he'll remember his birthday and the better days he's lived before he was robbed of it all. Someday, he'll sleep in a bed without memories of his rapists terrorizing him. Someday, he'll be greater than all these thieving and pandering shitheads. Someday, a knife will slit their throat and Prince will mockingly smile at their mangled bodies before his lips part to say something witty and clever enough that would allow him to ascend to the highest heavens for doing the greatest deed of all.

Fortunately for them, they were at the mercy of the present day that was obviously not 'someday'.

But mercy was an expensive thing to pay, and so fate had decided to take Melusine's life instead. Like the death of Summer, the youngest sister had perished without a warning at the coldest evening of Autumn. Not many mourned and not many grieved at the dreadful death of the youngest sister, not even her foul sisters who quickly began to split up the possessions and businesses Melusine had.

'I'll have the beach house, if any of you dare object to that—'

'Oh, as if I'd want that drab beach house of hers. So tacky and boring, just like her. Besides, I don't even like the beach.'

'Ditto! Xana, darling, have the beach house for all I care. I'd rather have the villa at Little Kingsleigh, the view is to die for.'

Wealth was meaningless in the face of their graceless personalities that marred their supposed unparalleled beauty. Between the eulogy that had to be written and the police asking for his statement, Autumn seemed to be incredibly prosperous for the young boy this year; after all, Prince had been the fortunate fool to find Melusine's mangled body and he had also been the one to catch the saint who had decided to do the deed that hundreds of people had been salivating over to do themselves.

"Pity that the idiot had to get himself caught, the old fool behind the clouds would give him a good seat in his pit of cherubs, that's for sure," He muttered to himself with a roll of his eyes that was entirely directed to the heavens, his strides smaller and slower than usual as he eavesdropped in the conversation between the two policemen who shook their heads at a somber motion at the mention of the murderer's execution.

So, with the death of the youngest bitch of the Most Noble and Ancient House of D'Arc, came the most preposterously high-maintenance funeral of the century — and Prince was given the honor to arrange it all, from the flower arrangement to the black marble tiles that Vandella had wanted, it didn't take long till he felt like he should just simply continue the legacy of Melusine's murderer. He would be doing the world a rather good favor if he did, and these insipid fools would die anyways so what was the significance of ten or seventy years accounted in their pathetically disgusting lives? The mortal realm would be glad to be rid of three more scums and Prince's devastating tragedy of a life would be infinitely better if they simply stopped living.

Living with the She-Devils left him in a frightening world of broken memories, painful ones that hardly made sense. Burning fire, crushing debris, embers devouring wood, a broad shouldered man, a sorrowful lullaby, suffocating smoke, a demise he hardly understood... The She-Devils had called themselves his family, his blood and kin as if to mock his undesirable hope and his liberating innocence, yet they had never granted him the relief of the soothing silhouettes he recalled from the most cryptic memories he had kept to himself. The sisters hardly even compared to the garbled memories, even the memories that horrified him with corpses and cold fingertips. (He liked to believe they were memories, a life before scorn made him believe that he had once been someone out there.)

And there were always mourners at funerals: a mourner could cry out in pain and longing and regret, a mourner could stare at the portrait with the weight of the world resting on their shoulders, a mourner could praise the dead for their good deeds in the living realm, a mourner could bring a hundred bouquets with hopes of some miraculous resurrection, a mourner could stare helplessly at their eulogy with red-rimmed eyes and a weak voice. But the She-Devils weren't mourners — they were heartless beasts and they do not mourn like humans do, for they only knew how to be conscienceless and spiteful even in the face and honor of death.

Melusine Vivianne, the dead one who's flesh and bone shall wilt and wither under the ground for forevermore. Xana Annalise, the third-rate She-Devil who's existence was nothing else but an insignificant marionette with a similar string to the others. Vandella Therese, the banshee who's misplaced logical thinking turned her into a mindless, scornful woman with nothing to show for. Lilith Anastasia, the mistress of Prince's agony. There was only hatred, hatred, and hatred.

He was tempted to burn the chapel down, starting from the patronizing look on the wooden statue of their God who's arms were stretched open as if he we were merciful and accepting — Only that Prince knew he wasn't, not to him, at least. As he stared blankly at the peeling beige paint of the wall, Prince pinched his nose with a careful and concentrated sigh that was heavier than the currents of the sea and deeper than the secrets the world had kept to itself.

"Whoever runs this place better bugger off back to their mummy or else—" He seethed to himself, then quickly grabbing an unsuspecting man by the collar to relay his concerns (his whingeing rant), "The funeral is in three days! Why haven't any of you told me about the goddamn walls? Vandella is going to see this and it'll be all our heads!" Prince whispered at a harsh tone, the man looking flabbergasted for a moment before a scowl drowned his scruffy face.

"It's a bloody funeral! Jus' get a damn coffin and stick up the damn body in with a couple o' daisies!! You snobby rich folk can't even afford to do somethin' tha' simple, innit?" The man shoved Prince back, a determined anger etched on his face as spittle escaped out of his mouth during his very accented reply.

"Just do your job, you oaf. You're not being paid bloody 700 Jenny an hour for your uninvited incompetency," Prince hissed, the sharp bones of Prince's elbows promptly digging into the man's ribs before he walked away with his nose high up in the air.

How dare he think that I'm like those degenerate cowards, he thought to himself with scorn and contempt as he looked over his shoulder with a scowl to find the man keeling over to nurse his attacked ribs. Huffing in satisfaction, he remembered to sneer at the prospect of having to mingle with foolish idiots who thought themselves above their own station. 'Twas not his fault that he was surrounded by insipid incompetents and that they all had a staggering amount of boorishness in their bodies.

Maybe he would burn this chapel down, after this whole affair was finished, after the crowd clears out and after the body is buried deep in the dirt of the misty cemetery close to the woods. There was an encouraging ache in his chest that seemed to agree with the thought of it; he could already smell the smoke, hear the collapse of these wooden pillars, see the ashes pile up on the ground. The peeling paint wouldn't matter by then, it would only be dismissed as a lost portion of the sanctimonious chapel. As his own thoughts entranced him to an endless loop of anarchy, he barely realized that Xana was making her way towards him with someone hot on her trail — a man. (Prince was not surprised nor was he curious.)

"Hello, little brother! How are the preparations going? Has the ivory candleholders arrived yet? Lady Jeanne tells me it looks much beautiful on a personal perspective than it does in the catalogue, I would die to see the look on their faces once they realize it's a Rosier masterpiece. Are those the flowers? You don't think you can order some more, could you? Maybe a little more of the red ones. Oh, the curtains! Vandella wants the dark green velvet ones, though I personally believe that the black velvet looks much more better. Alas, Ella is Ella..." She rambled the same way an excited child would, with a bright grin on her lips as if there was nothing else better to do than talk. Prince fought the urge to maim the woman and shove the ivory candleholders down her throat, lest he finds himself accountable for the consequences.

He never got along with Xana (or with anyone, for that matter...) for the most obvious reasons, Prince saw her as a parasitic nuisance who's ramblings compensated for her intelligence or the lack thereof. The brunet feared for himself that someday he'll be infected by her garble of idiocy, he couldn't believe that such a dense woman was supposed to be a part of the mistresses of seduction. She was the juxtaposition of Lilith despite her pathetic attempts at imitating the heartless woman; Prince saw her attempts in the dresses that were similar to Lilith's, the way she narrowed her eyes to make it seem hooded with lust, her ineffective actions of bending over and leaning forward, the insufferable admiring glances she casted towards Lilith.

At least, there was an attempt, he caught himself thinking with a well hidden grimace, a rather terrible and obvious attempt.

As he was entirely focused on Xana's undesirable flaws, Prince had forgotten about the presence of the man who was trailing after Xana, all it took was a gruff ahem from the man until all attention was focused on him. "Xana? The seating arrangements?" The man reminded with a raised brow, his eyes darting from Xana to Prince within a matter of seconds.

"Ah! Nearly forgot about that, apologies to you Lord Beaumont," She batted her eyelashes to the man, hardly looking sincere and instead looking like a complete idiot with something in her eyes, "Before that, let me introduce to you our little brother — Lord Beaumont, meet our brother. He's handling the funeral arrangements for us, very generous of him, don't you think?" She smiled as she gestured kindly to Prince, playing the part of an adoring, harmless sister. Prince might have gagged at the unnecessary emphasis on the word 'brother'.

"Aren't you a bit too young to be handling funerals?" Lord Beaumont queried with a concerned expression on his face, though there was clear skepticism dancing in his eyes.

"Does it matter?" Prince found himself replying before he was even able to form a more coherent and more appropriate reply, he caught Xana's deadly glare zeroed onto him and Beaumont's appraising stare. Quickly, he shrunk back with that sense of fear he had gotten used to. If Xana tattled the tale of him, Prince, being particularly sarcastic and rather untrue to what he was supposed to be — there would be a depressing and blurry dark canopy to stare up tonight, if that were to happen.

More sniveling and less wit on that tongue and spine, he reminded himself with a very practiced and very well-hidden sneer.

"No, I suppose it doesn't?" Morgan replied, his reply sounding more like an unsure but amused question than a factual answer.

Prince hmm-ed a reply before his gaze was casted down to the folder he had been perusing a few moments ago, recalling that the seating arrangements were listed down at the back page of the catalogue of stained windows that Lilith had specifically wanted. Nimbly, he peeled through sheets of paper before coming across the sheet with a sketch of the chapel's structure and the position of the seats — all written in this indecipherable handwriting that was Prince's. "Where would you like to sit...?" He asked, avoiding the gaze of the man that seemed to be overly focused onto him. There was a small cough from Xana that drew his attention until he noticed the meaningful glare she sent his way. Oh, he realized before clearing his throat, descending to a deep level of uncomfortableness.

"There's a rather good seat next to the organ? Or maybe you'd rather have it front and center..." He began smoothly, before salvaging his earlier mistake by adding a timid and frail 'Sir?' at the end of it. Prince confessed to himself that he was rather confused as to why he was making the seating arrangement—of a funeral—sound like some sort of luxury lottery or a good business deal. But then he remembered who's funeral it was, immediately finding it in himself the comprehension of his good mood. Thankfully, no one actually noticed the lack of morose tone in his voice nor did they comment on his rosy red cheeks as he thought of one less sister to attend to.

"Oh, as long as it isn't particularly close to us!" Xana began with a huff in her voice, "Lord Beaumont here is—well, was—betrothed to Melusine! And 'tis a D'Arc tradition and basic etiquette for siblings to never closely associate with the other's lover or whatnot! Mother would roll in her grave if she found out we sat next to Melusine's beau in Melusine's funeral..." The woman sighed as if just the thought was scandalous, slowly she eyed Beaumont with an appraising cloud over her eyes until she looked away with complete disinterest; "And besides that, I don't think I'd ever want to sit next to you. No offense intended, Lord Beaumont."

Oh, imagine that? A She-Devil getting married to an unsuspecting mortal? And She-Devils having a standard for a sensible tradition? Should I be expecting locusts and the four horsemen, while the heralding seven trumpets of doom beckon to me for the crescendo of the apocalypse?, Prince joked to himself with a quiet scoff and an unsurprising urge to bark with obnoxious laughter at the inane and supposedly impossible prospect of it all. Properly, he glanced to the man who was Melusine's betrothed fool and saw no one else but a tall, muscular man with red hair and vivid, amber eyes.

"So this is the sort of idiot that would marry the devil," He whispered so softly underneath his breath that he doubted anyone but himself heard it, there was an unimpressed droll in his voice as he quietly looked away to sneer at the man who's red hair was reminiscent of blooming Red Spider Lilies and who's eyes reminded him of the antiquity and beauty of amber.

Now, he understands the odd portrait of Melusine that hung next to the vanity within her dark chambers. A slender hand that fondly held a Spider Lily, its unique petals kissing her rosy lips as if a whisper was intended to escape with the way her lips seemed to part within the portrait. A collarless dress, revealing her paleness under the light and the innocent grooves of her collarbone that Prince remembered to be always riddled with harsh kisses but was instead void of it, only a locket with a silver chain and an amber stone was there to be found.

How fittingly romantic, he mocked. This was the man who asked for the devil's hand, this was the man who's romance painted itself across Melusine's existence. This was the man who wouldn't have been saved if it weren't for his bride's death.

In another life, he would have apologized and paid his condolences to the hurting man. But he was not that Prince who lived to serve and simply survive, he was the Prince that had begun to resurrect himself to be the savage beast his hollow heart ached to be. It was time to kill the boy who cried under dark canopies and begged for his life, it was time to—

"Truly, the seating arrangements does not mean a thing to me. As long as I am there with her, I will be satisfied." Lord Beaumont softly said, the stern tone of his voice morphing to a soft whisper as if to comfort and reassure himself and no one else. Her, the woman he believed to love with all his heart. Her, the woman who died before her wedding dress became worn. Her, his bride and his beloved.

With an affirming nod, Prince wrote down the man's name in a writing only he would have understood. With what little sympathy and empathy he could spare, he said, "Then you must sit where she would have wanted you to be."

There was a distant glistening but knowing look on the man's amber eyes, a respectful dip of his head that meant his silent gratitude, "To have a sane brother such as you, your sisters must be proud, Prince."

"...You know my name?" Prince replied with a practiced raised brow, disbelieving that Melusine would have told this man about his existence much less his name. There was a daunting lump forming on the back of his throat that seemed to suffocate him, and as he carefully swallowed the words that threatened to escape his lips, Prince turned away with a befuddled expression, "You only know my name, though," He remarked more to himself than to the latter, his confusion morphing to a strange sort of disdain.

The man shook his head with a fond expression that couldn't have been reserved for Prince, "Melusine have mentioned you several times, she was very fond of your wit and your ferocity — And I can see what she meant by that..."

So this is the sort of idiot that would marry and believe the devil, Prince cynically retorted as his disdain became familiar once more, Fond of my wit and my ferocity? Does she think herself humorous now that she's in the afterlife?

"Then I owe you my condolences, Lord Beaumont." Prince spat out as he raised his chin with an unfamiliar sense of spitefulness and fearlessness, dragging out the silence before walking away from the two nobility that stared at him with oddity. A lie, he told himself, for condolences costed him a conscience and a moral compass; things he no longer needed.

Morgan Beaumont, Lord of the Noble House of Beaumont, seemed to have forgotten the hollowness in his chest that accompanied him ever since the death of his beloved as he stared off to Prince's retreating figure. There was something nostalgic and fleeting with the way he spoke so daringly and fearlessly; though his pitiful pandering was as disgusting as it was amusing, Morgan thought of his old friend across the sea that spoke the same way. So, imagine Morgan's surprise when he saw such stagger-worthy eyes boring into his soul. The deliberations it stirred within Morgan seemed to have caused him to have some sort of small epiphany yet a larger crisis.

Such a crystalline blue and such a molten gold that mesmerized and captivated, Morgan wondered as to why such a young boy from Cefran could have the eyes of the damned — 'Have I told you Lilith adopted a young boy a few weeks ago? She named him Prince, after her pet rabbit during her days of youth... Such a strange name... But he's a quiet little thing, that one...' He remembered Melusine whispering to the wind several years ago as they rode one of his many ships, a short voyage across the coast of Cefran as she hid under the shade of her parasol and him beside her lithe form, watching the horizon and the curving waves.

Afraid and refusing to be casted down to his loving memories of Melusine with no point of return, Morgan shook his head with a newfound conviction to solve his own silent deliberations; so he thought that, no, this little boy who was named after a rabbit was not just some young unsuspecting and abandoned boy from Cefran but was, in fact, something else — something more. If his suspicions were right, then he truly feared for the sisters who seemed to have seen Prince as nothing more than a child.

Ah, Prince isn't even his true name, is it? Morgan thought to himself with a pondering expression as he saw the young boy converse with a bubbly young woman. His eyes shining under the sunlight that spilled through the clear windows, every time he blinked there was an ephemeral glow in his pupils. Captivating Morgan to answer the mystery he had found within the chapel, Gold eye drops from the West are only purchasable in the York New auctions during early Spring sessions, I believe. Uncle purchased a single vial and it had clearly costed a fortune and a very healthy liver... Lilith wouldn't squander her fortune for a young boy now, would she? Though impossible, I cannot exclude such a possibility despite all logical thinking... But he was adopted, so maybe before the D'Arcs he was administered it? Still, his eyes are frighteningly like Bravat's. If he is one of them, then I must—

"What are you looking at?" Xana piped up, reeling Morgan back to the confines of reality and present time, quirking an eyebrow as her gaze seemed to have followed his. Her soft blue eyes narrowing with disdain at the realization, her lips curling to a sneer; beauty and presence forgotten as she turned to look at Morgan with a deadly glare, "You dare to try and look at what is ours, Lord Beaumont?"

Ours? He is not something to possess! Morgan thought to himself indignantly, pocketing his clenched fists into the pockets of his coat. The muscles on his jaw seeming to have hardened as he prepared himself for his own venomous reply, "You cannot simply make claim to one's freedom and being, Lady Xana; nor can you make such a possessive remark to a fellow human being without the repercussions that nevertheless follows.You would know that if you truly did attend that prestigious boarding school of yours... Academy of... What was it again?"

Before the babbling woman could even respond, Morgan had already walked away.

After several (six) times of rescheduling the funeral and several (twelve) times of revising the RSVP-less gold bordered, rose scented invitations — Morgan Beaumont finally snapped, with fury in his thundering steps across the chapel hall and disgust in his amber eyes, he stared down at Lilith Anastasia D'Arc the same way a lion would to its weakest prey. Prince could imagine the jaws and fangs of the lion snapping the prey into a broken and dead half, with the rust-smelling blood spilling across the marble floor and the approaching sound of sirens from the distance. The thought of Lilith sprawled across the polished marble floor she had paid for was an endearing image that seemed to have tamed the treacherous hatred and rage he constantly familiarized himself with.

Mangled and bloody; now wouldn't that be a new and fitting seasonal style for all of nobility? Prince thought with amusement blooming in his chest, a smirk threatening to fall on his lips.

"Oh, Lord Beaumont, what brings you here? The funeral isn't until this Saturday. Prince? I thought you already sent the invitations back?" Lilith kindly smiled, her poison green eyes gleaming with amusement as the man appeared to be more murderous than what an actual murderer looks like. Teeth bared and fists clenched, ready to attack. She smiled like Morgan's rage was a grand achievement.

"This is not a tea party you can just simply delay, Anastasia," Morgan seethed, his ire going beyond his own.

"It isn't?"

"You twisted bi—"

"Hush, Morgan dearest. You mustn't lose your temper! There is a child present, Lord Beaumont..." Lilith chided, her fearlessness coming unparalleled as she fixed a crooked collar on Morgan's coat. Her lips curving to the smuggest smirk Prince has ever seen on her, as if she had just won a good game of poker that had a wealthy man's fortune involved. Envy wrapped around his throat, his breath hitching as if breathless — Just what kind of circumstances would he have to achieve to be that smug and victorious? Clearly, this pathetic power play was not the pinnacle of such a deadly thing.

Prince could see in Morgan's eyes that he was ready to maim the woman, tear the mistress of his anguish to the smallest pieces in a bloody rage. He could see the disgust and the contempt and the disrespect, and oh, all that pain. "Do not patronize me, Anastasia. I have had enough of this going back and forth between you three, and you dishonor us noblemen and women by your scandalous behavior. A proper Lady of a Noble and Ancient House shan't behave like a harlot of a newly discovered wealth. Do not continue to disrespect Melusine, or there will be consequences, Anastasia. If you cannot manage to settle your arrangements by Thursday, I will do it myself."

Prince might have been impressed but Vandella and Xana were murderous in the wake of Morgan's ire; Here's to hoping someone dies today, he thought to himself as he busied himself with a sudden interest to the newly installed stained windows. Reminding himself that one less scum to worry about was better than whinging fools that were inapt to proper decision making. Prince was not a stranger to sleep deprivation but even a week and a half without it was taking its dreadful toll on his malnourished body, even the dark circles beneath his eyes were beginning to concern him. When he looked at the mirror, he saw a vessel of a child that shivered and broke underneath the weight of the world — Prince had no need of a child.

"Enough," Lilith hissed with a stern glare, appearing to be properly insulted, "I am Lilith Anastasia D'Arc, Lady of the Most Noble and Ancient House of D'Arc, and I am my father's daughter. I will not have a simpleton such as yourself to insult my being and my standing in this society whether you think yourself right. I am above you in court, Morgan Beaumont. How I hold funerals is not your business, and your betrothal with my sister does not mean anything to me but a simple promise on a band of silver. This funeral is my sister's last luxury in the living realm and you dare dishonor that? We D'Arcs deserve the best, Morgan Beaumont."

"You're just lucky Melusine wanted to marry you, of all the people she was in bed with. And don't think we've forgotten the dishonor you've done to us, Beaumont," Vandella spat bitterly, her words bordering to a venomous hiss as she quickly span on her heel, Xana following suit with an acidic expression on her face. Lilith did the same but not before she stared into Morgan's amber eyes with obvious contempt. Prince wondered why her hateful stare seemed to have been practiced, but before he could ponder to himself about such a thing; Morgan whispered something harshly to himself before turning away, finding himself looking at Prince who's vacant expression left him embarrassed at his own shameless display of anger.

Prince though, just looked at Morgan with an unimpressed look. His strange eyes staring back at Morgan's amber eyes with a natural listlessness lingering in the very color of his eyes, "Prince, I... I really didn't notice you there."

The brunet laughed a dry chuckle, more unimpressed than he was earlier, "I would be surprised if you did, Lord Beaumont. With such an amusing display like that, I don't think anyone would notice little ol' me."

"That isn't what I—"

"If you truly aren't as spineless as I think you are, I believe you don't have the constant need to pander around me, Lord Beaumont." Prince scoffed, rolling his eyes to the heavens.

Morgan hushed himself to silence at the reply, baffled with such a statement as he's never heard anyone in Cefran speak so boldly and so uncaringly. Not in Cefran, at least. There are lot of fearless boys in the world, Morgan refrained himself from believing this child to be the first of the fearless lest he disappoints himself and the boy before him, "Then I must apologize for my earlier behavior towards your sister."

"Oh, hell. You're still doing it. Like an idiot."

Idiot?, He's never been called an idiot, a 'fool'—maybe—but an idiot? No, not ever. "Doing what?" Morgan asked with a befuddled expression.

"Good grief, an idiot with deteriorating brain cells," Prince muttered loud enough for it to echo and bounce off the chapel walls, sighing, "Apologizing. You don't even mean it. Do all nobles pander like you do? Because if so, then all of you are doing a terrible job at kissing arses."

Morgan sniffed, properly insulted at the notion, "I'm not pandering! I'm simply showing proper decorum and etiquette in situations like these, it would only be proper of me to apologize because my display was foolish and shameless. I don't see why you think it is 'kissing arse' when it clearly isn't."

"Oh, lord, you are terrible. You weren't supposed to respond to that obvious bait, and in the first place, you really weren't supposed to apologize like a goody-two-shoes. I can't believe you don't even realize that by apologizing, you were admitting that you were in the wrong," Prince sighed, growing more unimpressed by the second as he leaned back to a pillar, looking at the wall behind Morgan as if he found something entirely interesting in the painted murals. He promptly wondered as to how Morgan was able to survive childhood with such poor skills, until Prince realized that the man before him did not grow up under the brutal weight of the world nor did this man know the savageness of reality.

"It was a shameless and childish display, I ought to have controlled myself."

"Then you admit that this whole funeral farce is reasonable? That delaying Melusine's funeral is completely right and not even a smidge bit disrespectful? That Lilith has every right to do as she pleases?" Prince taunts with a bitter tone, his gaze towards Morgan was more than mocking as his face turned to an unimpressed sneer.

"I didn't say that—"

"Yes, you did. You apologized for that 'shameless and childish display' of yours — a display that was defending Melusine's honor. You apologized for what was right and you abandoned it for that 'decorum' you claim to have when you clearly affiliate yourself with Melusine and not Lilith. Of course you're not pandering to me and my favor, you're pandering to what is left of Melusine's memory: her sisters. You are most definitely not apologizing to me but to them, because you think you disgrace them by speaking out of turn and by extension, Melusine, as well. You think I'll tell them of your half-hearted apology that is merely offered to them because of Melusine, but I won't. Because the drivel between you fools is pathetic and I want no part of it, so try and tell me that I am wrong and allow me to watch you fail." The brunet retorted, a fierce look on his face as he carefully observed Morgan's expression that morphed to several shades of shame, hurt, confusion and hurt all over again. His eyes daring the man to deny his claims and then fail at it splendidly.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Prince," Morgan swallowed, an ache forming in his chest.

"Maybe so, but like I said, I don't want any part of the drivel between you and the sisters. I have no need of it," The brunet replied listlessly, eyes becoming vacant at the bland reply he was given. Morgan wondered why such a young boy would say such cynical things, as if he has already seen the darkest horrors and treachery in the world. There was a constant and familiar knowing gleam in his odd eyes, and it wrung the air out of Morgan's lungs as he tried to understand where that knowing gleam came from.

"... Then you won't. I can at least assure you that," Morgan said with a strange sense of rightness in his words, as if there was nothing else more perfect to be said in that very moment.

Prince stared at the man with a seemingly tired gaze and a droll smirk that lifted the corner of his lips, "I've seen the sisters do terrible things, Lord Beaumont. They are as barbaric as they are beautiful, you mustn't fool yourself like I do to myself. You mustn't make the mistakes the men and women before you have done, lest you find yourself in a body bag of our city's remarkable policemen. Might I remind you that not every funeral has its mourner, Lord Beaumont." It sounded like a cynical warning, or a dark reminder, as it rolled off of Prince's tongue with this lingering tone of amusement.

"Aren't you too young to be giving advice about murderous and tantalizing women?" Morgan asked with a faint smile to his face, finding meaning in the cynicism of it all. He wonders to himself as to how he was able to survive this far.

"Oh, but does it matter?" A delighted dark grin appeared on his lips, Prince's sharpest fangs gleaming as his mockery was made known, "You know I'm right," The brunet softly said as he then promptly spun on his heel to walk away from the man, to allow the oddity of it all to sink into the man. He knew the man would squirm and flinch under his callous gaze, and Prince reveled at the satisfaction of it all as his last glimpse of Lord Beaumont was nothing short of what he had expected.

The blistering red hair of Morgan reminded him of the insanity it felt to be held in the cold arms of death, though he couldn't ever remember coming close to such a frightening situation. But there was a constant terrifying familiarity knocking on the back of his throat, like a primal intuition that had been dormant for the last years of his young and tragic life. Morgan was like a newfound light of daydream in his endless nightmares, nearly comforting but also disconcerting and strange.

Finally, Saturday came along with the pile of scattered dead leaves, Prince watched the guests file into the newly refurbished chapel with dark veils, gloomy parasols, mutterings and a shocking amount of weeping. A fair amount of mourning nobles turned up and Prince couldn't help but feel rather amused and bitter at the same time, watching the rabbles mingle with one another as they pandered to the memory of what was left of Melusine. They apologize for the dead. They apologize for their own cruel misdeeds, whether known or not. Prince knew half of the members in the room had at least one or two terrible things to say about Melusine, and yet they all backpedaled like cowards in the face of the lady's death. Prince did not reprimand them though, not even in his mind, for any cruel thing they have gossiped about was not found undeserving in his books.

"Oh, Melusine was such a lovely girl. So young and full of life and dance and song..."

"I still can't believe someone did this! To such a noble young lady, too!"

"She had been so kind to me, lending me her ears like a saint. I trusted her with all my woes."

"I daresay everyone still remembers that outstanding Sleeping Beauty performance of hers! — A pity that she didn't continue, with her prodigious talent she would have been a prima ballerina!"

"I shopped with her this Summer and she even helped me pick out a necklace for mother! Mother was delighted with it; she really did have a taste for jewelry, that Melusine."

"True, she might have been a bit of an odd and quiet girl, but it was her charm! Vivianne was a saint to all, y'know!"

"I remember when we were at Lord Beaumont's gala together, she was so polite and so sweet the whole evening. Pretty little lady, that's what everyone called her. Oh, I even saw her dance with Lord Beaumont!"

"Ah, yes! Pretty little lady, the youngest of Cefran's icons for beauty and grace! We lost an honorable member of our society, I reckon..."

"Lord Beaumont, how are you feeling today? — Oh, forgive an old man for asking. I just worry for you, my dear boy..."

Prince was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, that genuine gratefulness of not being born to noble society. He would have been more disgusted with himself if that were the case. Maybe in another world there was a young Prince D'Arc who thrived in the luxury of Cefran and cowed the feeble minded nobles to his own whims and fancies; maybe that young Prince wore a long, dark frock coat, with cufflinks made of gold and charcoal ribbon on his white collar.

He thought of a lovely forest green vest with a black tailored trousers that fitted him like a glove, but unfortunately, all Prince saw was a boy he'd never be. To live such a preposterous life with gentlemen in their tailored suits and their tailored lies was not the endgame he desired to have. Wealth be damned if I'm not free, he thought with another one of his own well-hidden scowls.

The ceremony was in session and he absently stared at the portrait of Melusine, it wasn't the secretive painting that had Red Spider Lilies on her lips and a locket of silver and amber around her neck. It was just another portrait like all the other ones in the D'Arc manor, a perfect picture of a lady who's wealth would outlive her. It took a lot of staring until Prince realized that it was a painting of Melusine in her younger years, with her hair cascading down in waves and flowers weaved on the crown of her head. On the toes of her pointe shoes and a leg folded up to her thighs, a perfect posture of a ballerina in her own pretty dress. Ribbons of memories unraveled in his head as he once saw Melusine dance by herself in the empty garden of roses, her grace and splendid dance going unparalleled as he saw her spin and turn on her fit. Nothing to be said was left unfiltered, even as he merely just saw her from the second floor window.

This was the woman who was just as spiteful as all her other sisters. This was the woman who's days of youth were stolen from her under the moon and stars. This was the woman who's bed was stained with a rusting red and a knife plunged to where her heart was. This was the woman who laughed at the expense of his misery. This was the woman he mocked before he slept, the woman he called a bore and a sycophant. This was the woman who danced amongst roses and kissed Red Spider Lilies the way she did to her lovers. This was the woman who entranced Morgan Beaumont, the idiot who fell and believed. This was the woman who laid inside a coffin of lined ivory, never to wake or dance again. This woman was dead, dead, dead.

There was no beauty nor glory in death, only an unwinding truth and corroding facades of the masses. Prince counted out all the things he knew about Melusine and he knew halfway through his own mental musings that he'd never reach the seventieth mark. He would dance on Melusine's grave if given the chance, and he would do the same to all her sisters, as well. Prince placed a well-calloused hand in his pocket as he saw Morgan slowly walk up to the podium, the man's amber eyes filled with that familiar remorse and grief. Today, the man who pandered was nowhere to be seen.

"Melusine Vivianne D'Arc, a lovely..." Prince wondered if everyone noticed the way Lord Beaumont's voice faltered and fell at the syllables of Melusine's name, "A lovely woman who was as beautiful as the world we know. We both promised to each other that we would watch all the sunrises and sunsets together, forever and ever... Imagine my misery when she broke her promise," The man released a broken and watery laugh, Prince nearly half-expected the man to shed unwilling tears, "Oh, how I loved her. With all my beating heart and all the heartstrings and skipping beats she cost me, and I grieve for all the moments I spent not telling her of how much I love her. Her embrace was my refuge and her smile was my heart's only desire; I mourn for her so much it feels like my chest has been transfigured hollow — Alas, what use is a heart that beats for no one but yourself? My heart and life was hers, I promised her the world and more! What else could I do but mourn and live a life she could have lived with me? Oh, I love her. So much that it fills me with hurt and happiness, all at once. God knows I pray for her, and that I still beg for her to be alive...

"If she were still here, I would spend every waking moment telling her of her worth and beauty and my undying love for her! I would do anything for my lovely Melusine Vivianne — I will cherish all the memories I have of her, I will cry for her and laugh for her and live for her. You stand before her with memories of her, and I stand before you with a vow to never forget her. My beloved, I swear that I'll live the life you could have done for yourself and I swear on the life I have vowed to share with you, that I will love you more and more each day. No matter where you are, I will."

Morgan Beaumont, a man who fell and believed and vowed. The man saw a saint in what Prince saw to be diabolical, and Prince confessed himself to be curious if Melusine was unconditionally truthful to the man — Did she retell the sickening tale of how she had locked Prince in the cold cellar for three days once upon a time? Did she tell him all about how she simply watched Prince's humiliation and misery under the hands of her own sisters? Did she confess to him about how she laughed behind the palms of her hands as she watched Prince be kicked down the stairs and then kissed on the lips as if it would make him forget? Did she murmur against Morgan's lips with a whisper of how she had once called Prince a freak and a dirty little rat? Did she tell him all about the chain of sins she had condoned by turning the other cheek? Did she? Prince thought not, for this man who worshipped Melusine saw nothing but good and beauty in the dead woman.

Melusine has done nothing to leave a scar on Prince's skin, but she wasn't a bloody saint. She was just as terrible as her sisters, she was a witness to his pain but she continued to do nothing, hiding behind the palms of her hands the same way a coward would. Let Morgan and the others call the witch a saint in their sleep and in their vapid prayers and in their printed tabloids. Prince saw what needed to be seen and heard what needed to be heard, so when he looked away from the podium and ignored the mourning fools — all he saw was a woman in a framed portrait and all he heard was the silence of a corpse.

She was only a menace who danced in her youth and who called for silence when it benefited her the most. Damn her to hell, Prince thought as he felt that unrestrained hatred and anger boil in his blood as he watched the unmoving coffin. Forgetting epiphanies of how this woman dead and gone and most certainly none of his concern, instead remembering of how she has done nothing to save him from the clutches of her sisters. The woman who died but left the world to believe her shite smelled like roses, he thought with a sneer as he tortured himself to listen to the mournings of the crowd.

How they hung to all the good deeds Melusine has done for them, as if everything she's done was a sanctimonious pledge to heaven and high mercy. Oh, mayhap she didn't do anything wrong — but regardless, she has yet to do anything right towards him! She left him to fend him for himself when she could have done something! Now, there she was, in her coffin and in her portrait looking holier than thou. Written out in several eulogies as a kind and generous woman, absolutely nothing close to the woman Prince knew. Oh, pretty little lady, Melusine. The brunet soon enough realizing his newborn hatred for the dead lady, how he wished he had been the one to plunge the dagger to her heart.

Ah, let the world mourn and let the grief devour them, he had no need of such things. Today, there'll be one less scum of the world to worry about. Tomorrow, the world will go on.

**Author's Note:**

> I announce a disclaimer that Yoshihiro Togashi, the creator of Hunter × Hunter does not, in any way, profit from this story and that all creative rights to the characters belong to their original creator(s). Readers are prohibited to redistribute "YOUNG GOD" as their own, if this work will ever be seen anywhere else and not written under my name. Please report it to me immediately, thank you.


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